


The Tumultuous Privacy of a Storm

by satb31



Series: Valentine's Day Drabbles [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blizzards & Snowstorms, First Time, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 06:10:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3279686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satb31/pseuds/satb31
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A blizzard is descending upon the city -- and Grantaire has descended on Combeferre's apartment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tumultuous Privacy of a Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AbschaumNo1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbschaumNo1/gifts).



> The title is from Ralph Waldo Emerson.

The forecast is dire, but Combeferre is prepared: he stocked up on batteries and peanut butter, brought in some wood for his fireplace, and fished his shovel out of the storage closet. Classes have already been cancelled for the next day, so his plan is now clear: he will hunker down in his tiny living room, wrap himself in blankets, put on some music, and spend the entire storm reading papers and writing his lecture for his course next week.

But as the first flakes start to drift from the sky, his doorbell rings. He runs downstairs to discover Grantaire, standing on his front step, a bottle of wine in one hand and a shopping bag from the fancy grocery store down the street in the other. Snowflakes cling to his dark curls and the shoulders of his gray woolen coat, and he is shivering, having not bothered to put on gloves or a scarf. “I thought you could use some company,” Grantaire says with a wry grin that could melt winter's fury -- and melts Combeferre’s heart.

Combeferre would have thought he would be riding out the storm with his drinking buddies Joly and Bossuet, or that it would be his beloved Enjolras's door he would be knocking on tonight. But without hesitating, Combeferre ushers Grantaire inside, thrilled with his surprise guest. 

And his plans are completely forgotten.

**  
Combeferre's apartment is drafty -- he lives on the second floor of an old Victorian house, with high ceilings and large windows that are architecturally stunning but highly impractical. When he signed the lease, it was an uncharacteristically impulsive decision -- he liked the location and the price, but more than anything he loved the fireplace that dominated the living room, imagining himself lighting a fire and spending winter evenings sitting in an armchair reading and listening to music. 

He wraps his nubby cardigan around his body as he leads Grantaire into the kitchen. It has granite countertops and a fancy stove that Combeferre almost never uses -- he’s not much of a cook, and now that he lives alone, he doesn’t even bother most of the time. When he lived with Courfeyrac, who fancied himself a gourmand, he dined like a king every night, but now it’s take out Chinese from the place down the street and cereal -- and sometimes he doesn’t even remember to eat at all. 

Grantaire takes off his coat and tosses it on a chair, then begins unpacking his shopping bag and stacking the food on the counter. “I figured you would be hunkered down with your jar of peanut butter,” he teases. “So I thought maybe you’d like some chili and cornbread to warm you up,” he offers, as he starts rooting around the cabinets for the pots and pans he needs. He’s only been over to Combeferre’s apartment twice -- once when he was helping Combeferre move, and again for a housewarming party that Prouvaire had organized on Combeferre’s behalf -- but he seems to already know his way around.

Combeferre nods, his mouth watering at the thought: Grantaire spent some time in the Southwest as a child, and his Tex-Mex is widely praised among their friends. “Let me open up the wine,” he offers, taking the bottle out of its brown paper bag and fishing his corkscrew out of a drawer. He decants the wine into two oversized glasses, and hands one to Grantaire, who is already browning ground beef in his one oversized pot. “Can I help with anything?” Combeferre asks, taking a sip of the wine, which is of good quality -- Grantaire was never one to drink cheaply.

“Go read your book,” Grantaire insists, motioning Combeferre away. “I’ve got this.”

Combeferre hesitates for a minute -- he’s savoring the sight of this man, who is usually affecting an air of detachment, completely engrossed in something -- but eventually he disappears into the living room and starts building a fire in the hearth. As soon as it’s roaring away -- Combeferre may not be able to make a meal, but he can make fire like nobody’s business -- he sinks into his easy chair and picks up his book, although the presence of another in his space renders him unable to concentrate for more than a paragraph at a time.

After a while Grantaire meanders in, carrying the half-empty bottle wine. “It needs to simmer for a while,” he says, refilling Combeferre’s glass, his eyes meeting Combeferre’s as he does so. “Good things take time,” he murmurs, pouring the rest of the wine into his own glass and taking a seat on the rug next to the fire.

“Why are you here?” Combeferre finally blurts, a question that has been on his mind since he first discovered Grantaire on his doorstep. “Shouldn’t you be making chili for Enjolras?” He knows he sounds rude and impertinent, but he doesn’t much care -- and he’s pretty confident Grantaire doesn’t care, either.

“Number one, as you know, our dear leader is a vegetarian,” Grantaire says, taking a long sip of his wine. “And number two -- well, let’s just say over the past few weeks I’ve come to realize I’ll never be welcome over there.”

“Really,” Combeferre says evenly, although his heart starts to beat a little bit faster and his face suddenly feels as if it is on fire.

“Not in the way I would have wanted to be welcome,” Grantaire says, swirling the wine around his glass. “If you know what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Combeferre admits, swallowing hard, recalling the pain he too has suffered, at watching someone you loved expressing his love for someone else. Yet it’s a pain that is tempered by a sudden optimism that maybe it would no longer be an issue, that maybe Grantaire has finally abandoned his years-long quest to be loved by a man whose love is reserved for his cause, for his beliefs, for the future.  
Grantaire glances up at him, his blue eyes meeting Combeferre’s -- they are clear and vivid, and suddenly serious. “I guess I thought I’d be much more welcome here,” he says quietly.

Combeferre sets his wineglass down on the table next to him, and slides himself onto the floor so he is sitting beside Grantaire, taking his rough hand into his own -- and without a second thought, he kisses him tenderly. 

“You always have been,” Combeferre murmurs against his open mouth.

**  
Later -- much later -- they stumble back into the warm kitchen, Grantaire in just his boxer shorts, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, Combeferre in a pair of pajama pants and a ragged t-shirt he fished out of his laundry basket. The chili is ready -- although the cornbread has been long forgotten -- and Grantaire spoons it into bowls, topping it with shredded cheese and sour cream. They eat standing up, saying few words as they do: it’s that awkward moment after revealing so much to each other, both physically and emotionally, and neither man is quite sure what to say in that moment. 

Back in the living room, the fire has been reduced to embers, and the room has gotten cold, so Combeferre adds another log to stoke the fire, while Grantaire opens another bottle of wine, watching him from the doorway as he sips from his glass. When the fire is roaring once more, Combeferre lays back against the chair and beckons Grantaire to join him; he cannot help but to notice they fit almost perfectly together, with Grantaire’s compact frame folded into Combeferre’s long one. 

“I don’t think the storm’s going to let up anytime soon,” Grantaire remarks, glancing up at the large casement windows overlooking the street: the wind has started to howl, and snow is blowing up against the window panes and sticking there, making patterns that reflect the streetlights below. 

Combeferre kisses Grantaire’s forehead lightly. “Then we’d better stay right here until it’s over.”


End file.
